Chapter 79 Price

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Chapter 79: The Price of Fire

The sun had just begun to dip behind the crumbling towers of Moat Cailin as the light slanted through the solar's windows, catching flecks of ash still lingering in the air. Moat Cailin still smelled of fire and blood. But the Solar, damp with the eternal chill of the Neck, smelled of old stone and rushes. Daeron sat at in his chair facing Howland, his cloak folded behind him, his armor still buckled on, dark and worn from the battle just hours before.

The door creaked open, and a Northern soldier stepped in, leading a dust-covered knight behind him.

"Ser Marlon Manderly, Your Grace," the soldier announced.

Daeron rose to his feet as Marlon entered, his face lined with exhaustion, his grey-blue cloak stained by the ride. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and too young for the streaks of weariness under his eyes. He dropped to one knee without ceremony.

"Your Grace. Lord Reed."

Howland inclined his head. Daeron stepped forward, offering his hand.

"You've ridden hard, Ser Marlon. You and your men must be exhausted."

"We came as fast as we could, Your Grace," Marlon said as he stood, though it was clear he favored one leg.

Daeron motioned to the chair across from him. "Sit. You've earned that much."

Marlon hesitated for a breath before sitting. Daeron could see the man's pride warring with fatigue. The fatigue won.

Howland leaned forward, his voice even. "White Harbor's response is commendable. You led two hundred riders through rough lands of the Neck, and you did it in days. That speaks well of your House."

Marlon bowed his head slightly. "Lord Wyman knows the importance of Moat Cailin, Lord Reed. He said if we lost it, we'd be fighting to reclaim the Moat for months. So When your letter came, he sent me and the two hundred best riders we could spare. But it seems…" he paused, glancing toward the window, "we were too late."

"Late, perhaps," Daeron said, "but not without worth."

Marlon looked surprised.

"To ride across the wilds lands of the Neck knowing you were outnumbered, to face down Ironborn raiders without hesitation—that's courage," Daeron said. "And courage is never wasted."

Marlon shifted uncomfortably but accepted the praise with a quiet nod. "We just did what was needed."

Daeron studied him a moment before leaning back. "And you brought news as well?"

"Aye." Marlon's face darkened. "Before we left White Harbor, we received a raven. The Ironborn have struck again—this time on the west coast. We don't know the full scale, but the message spoke of Ironborn longships seen on the west coast sailing north."

Daeron's brow furrowed, though he kept his voice level. "I suspected they wouldn't strike Moat Cailin alone."

He exchanged a look with Howland, who silently agreed.

"My uncle Benjen holds Winterfell," Daeron said. "He'll be ready. He's no fool—he's seen this coming."

"If anyone can hold them back, it's Lord Benjen," Howland added.

A knock came at the door. One of the northern soldiers, armor flecked with dried blood, stood at the threshold, helmet under his arm.

"Your Grace, Lord Reed—pardon the interruption. We've recovered a body from the field."

Daeron stood. "Who?"

"Victarion Greyjoy, Your Grace."

The silence in the room sharpened. Marlon sat straighter. Howland rose to his feet.

"Take us to him," Daeron said.

They crossed the courtyard in silence.

The tent where the dead were being sorted was quiet, save for the soft prayers of a lone septon and the whispered steps of the Silent Sisters moving among the bodies.

Inside of the tent was thick with the smell of death. Rows of corpses were wrapped in cloth or left uncovered for sorting—soldiers, raiders, all burned and broken. Near the far end, beneath a bloodied tarp, lay the Ironborn commander.

Victarion Greyjoy's corpse was unrecognizable to most. His armor had melted to him in some places. The stench of burned flesh clung to the air. But his face—blackened though it was—remained whole, the wind having spared it the worst of Lyrax's fire.

"Dragonfire," one of the healer murmured. "Burns hot. So hot it cauterizes even the soul."

Daeron stepped closer, he stood over him in silence. There was no joy. No smug satisfaction. Only certainty.

Victarion had tried to take the North. He had brought death to the Neck and would have butchered thousands if given the chance. Now, he was nothing but ash and bone.

Daeron turned to the soldier standing nearby.

"Take the head," he said. "Have it cleaned and prepared. The Silent Sisters will tend to it."

The soldiers exchanged glances, then nodded. "Shall we prepare it for transport, Your Grace?"

"Yes. Have it preserved." Daeron turned away from the corpse. "It's time the King of Salt and Rock saw what price he and the Ironborn pay when they cross into my kingdom."

Outside the tent, the wind had picked up. Smoke still clung to the treetops, though the worst of the blaze had burned out. Daeron's cloak stirred behind him as he turned to Marlon and Howland.

"Ser Marlon," he said, "you and your men will remain here for now. Moat Cailin must be held until I can send a proper force. I want it properly guarded. Victarion may be dead, but the Ironborn are stubborn fools, We can't afford a second surprise."

"Of course, Your Grace," Marlon replied. "We'll hold it until we're relieved."

Daeron nodded. "Good."

He turned his gaze northward, toward the forests and the lands beyond.

"I leave for Winterfell at first light. The skies are faster than ravens, and if the Ironborn are striking again, I need to be there."

Neither man questioned him. Neither needed to.

Daeron Targaryen didn't wait for war to find him. He flew to meet it.